The High King's Wife
by whatswiththemustache
Summary: Before Eliot's wedding, Margo wants to have a talk with the girl her best friend is about to marry. A missing scene from 1x13.


Before Eliot's wedding, Margo wants to have a talk with the girl her soulmate is about to marry.

_I would really hate to be Fen right now. _

The thought pops into Margo's mind unbidden, too swift to be crowded out by the sense of frustration and defeat weighing her down; those emotions don't particularly want to sympathize with Eliot's bride-to-be at the moment. _She _doesn't want to sympathize with anyone except Eliot and herself, at the moment.

As the best man of the groom-to-be, she's allowed to be a little selfish. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts, her thoughts are intent on being empathetic right now.

She's standing alone underneath one of the barn's dripping eaves, watching as the soggy little clearing before her is transformed from a rundown barnyard into a... slightly celebratory barnyard. Various Fillorians (that have all just sprung up out of the woodwork, apparently) bustle around in excitement, arranging benches and fastening wreaths and adorning things with flowers; despite it all, the whole thing looks distinctly like it was thrown together at the last minute by a bunch of moderately talented but undeniably under-stocked muggles. From the middle ages. The grey sky and damp feel to everything only makes it all even more underwhelming.

Of course, she could just use magic to help them all out and make it at least _resemble _a wedding, but... Margo somehow doesn't think that Eliot would appreciate that. It certainly wouldn't do anything to make _her _feel better.

But still – she can't help but imagine how she'd feel if this was her own wedding. Despite being generally against the whole concept of marriage, she's taken the time to imagine what her wedding might look like once or twice in the past – and needless to say, it would undisputedly be the sort of affair that takes a month to set up, and another six to plan; she knows that she wouldn't settle for anything less than the marriage of the decade, if not the century. It would be _fabulous_.

And despite how much she _doesn't _want to sympathize with anyone besides Eliot and herself right now, she can't help but wonder if Fen is the sort of girl who daydreams about grandoise weddings, too. Can't help but wonder how the knife-maker's daughter feels about this DIY Fillorian wedding setup at the moment.

Margo's shoulders hunch a little as she pushes her hands deeper into her pockets, tucking her chin down into her coat. She watches a pair of kids sprinkle flower petals over the makeshift dirt aisle, laughing; the petals drop out of the air like damp feathers, sticking to the slightly muddy ground. The kids pause in the middle of their task, arguing about something, and Margo sighs. Enough sentimentality. _Eliot's getting married. _

And Margo literally knows the _name _of oh-so-lucky girl, and nothing else. Time to change that.

xxx

It doesn't take long to track her down. According to all of the random Fillorians (neighbors? relatives? royal wedding decorators for hire?) rushing around the place, Fen has spent the past few hours in her father's workshop, helping with some weaving. When Margo finds her, however, she's definitely not weaving; the sound of metal scraping against a grindstone greets her before the sight of the Fillorian girl does.

Fen sits at one of the low workbenches, hunched slightly; upon one leg, a long stone block is balanced atop a strip of leather. Arms moving back and forth with an even rhythm, she presses a long, narrow knife to the block, slowly sharpening one edge. Margo stands in the doorway, watching for a moment before interrupting the steady sound.

"Nice knife."

Fen jumps dramatically at her voice, sending the grindstone tumbling to the floor; thankfully she doesn't cut off any fingers in the process. Wide brown eyes blink up at Margo as a bout of silence fills the room.

"Oh, I'm – I was just, um..." Fen trails off, her gaze dropping again; a pink blush lights up her cheeks. She quickly stoops to pick up her grindstone before carefully wrapping the knife in leather, gently placing both items beside a pile of expertly woven flower crowns that lay abandoned on the workbench. Standing, she brushes her skirt out and straightens, facing Margo.

"Sorry," says Fen rather breathlessly, eyes wide and just a bit red; her arms are straight at her sides, fingers worrying at the fabric of her skirt. "You startled me. I'm Fen, and you must be–"

"Margo."

She interrupts with the two long, drawn-out syllables that make up her name, allowing just a hint of emotion to color the word; it's enough to instill layers of meaning that Fen couldn't possibly fail to notice. Scathing, at all of this oh-so-sacred Fillorian tradition; disdain, at the equally oh-so-RPG Fillorian accommodations; frustration, at the fact that the rules seem to be unbreakable, here. Resentment, at the girl who, by no choice of her own, is about to play an integral part in the magical ceremony that will effectively cockblock Eliot for the rest of his life.

In the silence that follows, Fen's eyes grow even wider; she stiffens in what must be apprehension as Margo watches her, hands deep in her pocket and lips pursed. For a moment, neither speak – not Fen, hesitating with uncertainty, and certainly not Margo, who is intent upon stressing just how serious she wants to be right now.

She can't really think of this as an _evaluation_, because whatever her opinion turns out to be, it won't have the power to change a damn thing either way. But that disappointing fact sure as hell won't stop Margo from finding out exactly what kind of person Elliot's future wife is.

"Listen," said Margo finally, the word pressed out with importance and urgency; it's nothing less than a command. "This is pretty much uncharted territory for me, so I'm just going to get straight to the point. You're getting married. To _Eliot_. So you might as well be getting married to me too, because he and I are pretty much a package deal."

Hands still buried deep in her pockets, Margo takes a slow step forward, and then another, eyes still locked on Fen's. The bride-to-be hasn't moved an inch; she stands stock-still, arms at her sides, watching Margo attentively. Her forehead creases a little at Margo's words, head tilting questioningly; Margo doesn't pause to explain herself. Margo and Eliot have never bothered to care about the sort of people who expect explanations about the nature of their relationship, and she doesn't plan on changing that any time soon.

"I may not be Fillorian, but if Game of Thrones has taught me anything, it's that royal marriages tend to end with someone getting fucked, and not in the good way. Eliot's High King, and I can't imagine that's gonna be easy. For any of us. But I for one fully intend on making sure that as little as possible goes horrifically wrong. And I know that you didn't exactly sign up for this either, but I literally know _nothing else_ about you. So. Here's a little something to keep in mind."

Margo steps closer again, until she's just a few feet from her practically captive audience. Fen is frowning, lips pressed tightly together, eyes narrowed but unwavering. There's a hint of indignation in them, outweighed by wariness.

"For me and Eliot, it's pretty much always been us against the world – and believe me, the world is almost always a total dick. I've spent way too long watching out for that man's self-destructive ass for some crazy magical bullshit to fuck it all up. And _that _means that if anyone starts trying to fuck things up, I'm fully prepared to do anything to protect him. And I mean _anything_." Margo pauses for effect, unblinking; the words are only _just _sinister, and she's pretty sure Fen's caught on. Her tone changes gears effortlessly, words sugary sweet. "So. I'm sure we'll all get along just fine, and this whole ruling FIllory thing will be a one big picnic."

She purses her lips, head cocked to one side as she holds Fen's gaze. The other woman's eyebrows are pinched, gaping slightly as she stares at Margo for a long moment.

"I – hope... that we do," agrees Fen slowly, eyes narrowed. Her words sound forced – entirely true, but not at all what she really wants to say. "And, I – applaud your loyalty to Eliot, and Fillory, and all that, but – um... sorry, was that supposed to be...comforting, or–?"

Margo allows a tiny smirk upon her lips. "Oh, absolutely."

Silence falls between them as Fen's frown deepens into a glare; she takes a deep breath, as if she's working up the courage to speak. Her eyes flash as she opens her mouth. "Well – well, it _wasn't_!"

The words are sharp, angry, and not entirely what Margo was expecting.

"Look, I – I know that you're a future ruler of Fillory, so I probably shouldn't yell at you, but – well – I don't particularly appreciate being..._insinuated _at on my wedding day!" The words are tense with indignation and laced with a sliver of doubt. Fen's eyes flit away for a second, discomfort and regret flashing across her face for a moment, before she meets Margo's gaze with renewed force.

"I don't– I haven't got any plans for toppling the throne and taking Fillory for myself, if _that's _what you're thinking," Fen bursts out, eyes flashing angrily. "And, anyway, I _couldn't, _because only a child of Earth can rule Fillory, and then there's the marriage contract, and – I – that would just be _horrible_! And you're right, I _didn't _sign up for this – I've spent half my life thinking that this day would never come, and the other half dreading that it would, and – and then, _surprise_, today's the day, and I don't even know _how _I feel about it at the moment, but – that doesn't make me any less of the person that I was yesterday, and that just so happens to be the kind of person who thinks that betraying family is the _worst _thing a person can do."

She breaks off with a deep breath, swaying slightly; her eyes are wide again, as if she's surprised by her own outburst; blinking rapidly, she lifts her chin defensively and continues. "And – well, Eliot's about to become a part of my family, and vice versa, so... I fully intend to support him as best I can." She glances away, then, eyes lowered as she quickly smooths out her skirt, fidgeting slightly.

Silence fills the room once more, and Margo takes the moment to slowly nod in appreciation, pursing her lips; she can't help but be the teeniest bit impressed. "Okay," comments Margo, pitching her voice in mock admiration; Fen's eyes flick back up to meet hers, clearly apprehensive once again. "So you've got teeth. That's good. You're probably going to need them."

Fen shifts under Margo's piercing gaze, and Margo steps back, heaving a deep sigh. "Alright, listen. Dropping the hostility now, because there's another thing that HBO taught me, and it's that if you're unlucky enough to be in the fifty percent of the population missing a dick, you're basically screwed." She pauses, watching Fen sadly. That damn empathy again. She doesn't bother fighting it off, this time. "And yeah. You didn't ask for this. And that really fucking sucks."

A second goes by, and then another, and then Fen blinks up at her, a question in her eyes. Margo gives her the tiniest of sad smiles, and Fen falteringly returns it.

"So let me give you some advice," continues Margo, her voice lighter; it doesn't do much to lighten her leaden weight in her gut, but then why would it. Before her, Fen straightens, nodding almost imperceptibly as she presses down her skirt again. "Eliot's not exactly the easiest person to live with. There are most definitely going to be bad days when he's being a total asswipe, and you're just going to have to put in the self-care earplugs for a day. Sometimes you're going to want to punch him right in his stupid pretty face. But Eliot's a good person, despite all that, so just... try to keep that in mind."

She pauses, lips pressed together as she waits – it only takes a few seconds before Fen catches on, jumping slightly as she nods in affirmation. "Of course," promises Fen, dark curls bouncing. "I know this can't be easy for him, either."

Margo shakes her head, releasing her breath in a huff. "It's not. To be honest, I think he may be a little out of his mind right now," admits Margo quietly. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Fen's wide-eyed look, and raises an eyebrow. "It's been a rough few months."

It's almost laughable, how true and yet simultaneously untrue that statement is. _Rough_.

A moment of quiet follows the sentence, like an acknowledgement; it ends with Fen clearing her throat hesitantly, taking a breath. "Well – if it's any consolation at all," rushes Fen, hands clasped together; her eyebrows are pinched in something like sympathy. "I promise to be the best wife I can possibly be. I know that– that there are many responsibilities to ruling a kingdom, just as there are dangers, and – well, I'll do my best to help him through it all, if I can."

_That damn empathy again. _Some part of Margo's brain is telling her to scoff at the sincerity in her words, but a much bigger part almost wants to cry because she's pretty sure that Fen means every word. _Stupid Fillorian wedding bullshit. Stupid Eliot and his stupid royal blood. _

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, trying to untangle her lingering resentment from her unwanted sentimentality. "And I... I promise that I'll help you both," vows Margo, holding Fen's gaze. Her bottom lip trembles, and she bites it fiercely; this isn't the time for that. It's never the time, really. "And if you ever need anything, you can always come to me, okay?" 

Fen nods again, her huge eyes somehow even wider than before; her smile flickers like a candle, torn between gratitude and anxiousness. "Thank you."

Margo dips her head swiftly, sniffing slightly as she takes a few steps back. Enough of all these emotions. "Anyway," says Margo with attempted loftiness – her tone sounds just a tad off. "Wedding stuff. Decorations and shit. I guess you can get back to – um, sharpening your knives."

With a glance back at the worktable behind her, Fen grimaces slightly and ducks her head. "I should probably get back to weaving," she admits, a note of guilt in her voice. "I was feeling a bit – well, nervous, I guess, and sharpening a blade always calms me down."

"Well, honey, it's your wedding day," says Margo, tilting her chin up with a faint smile. "You sharpen all the damn knives you want." With that, she turns and leaves, and the sound of Fen's light laugh catches up with her. She makes her way out of the knife maker's house, back out into the gloomy afternoon that's somehow looking the faintest bit brighter.

She almost hates that she actually feels a little better now. The absurdity of the whole situation hasn't been lost on her yet, and she's still determined to be miserable, at least on the inside – Margo knows perfectly well just how stubborn she can be, and this only proves it. Because, after all that, she almost hates it, but – she's pretty sure that she actually _likes _Eliot's future wife.


End file.
